Unfinished Business
by itzaboo
Summary: A House post series finale story. Takes place nearly a year after the final episode, "Everybody Dies." Warning: Character deaths have occurred before the beginning of this story
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Following is the beginning of a new, post series finale story. Why on earth I'm starting a new House story when I still have several House fanfics currently in the works (not to mention my own original material) is really quite beyond me. Apparently I am a glutton for punishment._

_However, this story has taken hold of me and will not let go. So the only way to get this monkey off my back, theoretically, is to write it down and post it online. I do this in the hope that I may capture the fancy of some readers (those already accustomed to my tales and hopefully a few new ones as well) and even perhaps some positive feedback._

_So without further ado (except for the reminder that this story begins about a year after the last House episode), this writer humbly gives you: _

**Unfinished Business**

**1.**

There it was . . . after so many months of waiting . . . of watching . . . of obsessively scanning the papers each morning for any hint of news.

And after dreading that particular news for so long, the inevitable had come at last.

She stared down at it, this small, unobtrusive article printed on the third page of the "local" section in the _Register News_. Only a few paragraphs long, the sad nearly buried report heralded the closing of a door in her life.

And in her heart.

It was the end of a journey she began nearly six years ago, a journey that had originally been filled with so much hope and promise but had sputtered out and crashed leaving nothing but sorrow and regret.

So much regret.

Her delicate hand shook slightly as she reached for her reading glasses. She always trembled a bit more first thing in the morning before she'd had a cup of coffee.

That's what she told herself anyway.

Unfortunately, her need for glasses at so young an age could not as easily be explained away upon the pretense of caffeine withdrawal.

The truth of the matter was that her body had begun to fail her. Preordained through genetics, its first symptoms had perhaps been sped up from the more imprudent choices of her former, reckless lifestyle. The shaking, the weakened vision, so many little changes signified the beginnings of her health's inexorable slide downward.

She may have bought herself more time by altering her way of life but the damage from her previous foolhardy decisions was already done.

Ignoring the gathering darker clouds of thought forming on her mind's horizon, she placed her half-moon "Dumbledore" spectacles on the end of her nose and took up the newspaper once more. She read again the name and studied the accompanying photograph, the one that had caught her attention in the first place.

The picture was several years old at least, showing the familiar, boyishly handsome visage. Taken during happier times, long before he'd been stricken with the disease that would one day claim his life and certainly years before the strain of his best friend's untimely death would make their indelible marks.

_James Wilson, former head of oncology at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was found dead from complications arising from cancer. He was 44._

She looked again at his face, until this moment simply a year-old memory in her mind's eye. The warm brown eyes, fuzzy eyebrows, puckish nose and shock of dark brown hair spilling across his forehead made her eyes suddenly burn with unshed tears.

She leaned across the couch and grabbed a box of tissues that was placed strategically on her side table. After unceremoniously blowing her nose she read on.

She wanted . . . no needed to know the details.

_Dr. Wilson's body was found late last week in an isolated cabin just outside the town of Jackson Hole, Wyoming._

For the first time that morning, for the first time in a very long time, she smiled to herself.

To her mind there was perhaps no more beautiful spot anywhere than Jackson Hole. The small western town, situated at the foot of the Grand Tetons, marks the exact spot where the mountains rise up like pillars for the sky. The clouds in their turn cover the high, jagged peaks as the light paints everything in the broadest strokes of eye-stunning color.

Yes. She was happy that Wilson was there, surrounded by that glorious scenery when he breathed his last.

But she was sad too when she remembered that he had died alone, his best friend predeceasing him nearly a year before.

"House."

It had been a long time since she'd said his name aloud. It had not been long however since she'd thought of him. His name, his face, his affecting eyes, the memory of him lingered within her thoughts like the last rays of light on a late Autumn afternoon.

Like ice water running through her veins, she remembered that House too had died alone. He had been consumed by a ghastly fire in an abandoned warehouse, his body so badly charred that he had to be identified with dental records.

Was it suicide? That was a strong possibility. But no one had ever really known how wretched he'd been until his death.

No. _She_ _HAD known._

Because House had told her.

Not in so many words of course. House was never one to be verbose about his feelings. But contrary to the opinion of many, he did in fact have them. She knew that without a doubt.

And House's emotions ran close to the bone, intense, strong and abiding.

It was because he felt so deeply that he hid and more often denied his feelings. His armor of hardhearted self-protection was nearly as great as his emotions and infinitely more practiced.

Yet someone who cared as much as House, who felt as much as he did, could not forever hide that sensitivity. He had slipped up, had opened his heart to her, revealed to her and perhaps to her alone that he truly did care about the people in his life. Hell, House even cared about his patients who were relative strangers to him. Over the years through innumerable observations and personal experiences she perceived within the myriad of his reactions and expressions, the real soul of the man.

House's heart beat steady and true. What he felt was honest and profound and in the end, undeniable.

She remembered as if it were only yesterday how she had revealed to House her greatest anguish. House pushed and prodded at her, until there was nothing else but to divulge her darkest hour and her own, true feelings to him.

And he had reciprocated in kind.

Once again, not in words but in his soul's windows, through the heartrending look shining in his vivid blue eyes. She had turned away at first and mistakenly chastised him. But when she finally recognized the truth of his revelation, she felt somehow honored, blessed really, to be someone who saw past his deflections and apparent misanthropy to the truly vulnerable individual that resided within.

They each experienced the heart of the other. They'd bonded. And there existed between them an unspoken understanding. The abhorrence of pity or rejection of any appeal for sympathy was just one of the commonalities they shared.

But typical as it was with House, as they began to draw closer together, the harder he started to push himself away. So that by the time of his disappearance, they were no longer in regular contact with one another, on the surface, becoming almost like strangers once more.

Yet she herself had never felt that way, not in her heart, not about House.

House was inspiring and infuriating and heroic and maddening and brilliant and damaged. She felt so many things about the man, as a mentor, boss, opponent, confidante and friend. He was certainly not someone she, or anyone else for that matter, could remain ambivalent about. House was someone you either hated or loved. Knowing him was either an all or nothing at all proposition.

Because that's the way House himself functioned in his day-to-day world. So that was how, in complementary reaction, everyone around him operated as well. House's very nature necessitated it, demanded it.

She'd grown close to him then, despite all her own reservations and fears. She couldn't help herself. She respected him, admired him . . . perhaps in her heart of hearts even loved him.

Then suddenly he was gone.

Was it suicide? No one knew for sure.

She'd kept her own opinions about his death to herself. Better that than hurt all those others who assumed they could have intervened, could have helped House, turned him around, gotten him out of his pit of misery if they'd only known.

The fools. No one had that kind of power over another really, especially over House and especially over his self-destructive depression.

Yet the glimmer of hope House had shown her only the year before by offering to help in her time of greatest need had made her believe that if anyone could have interceded on his behalf, it would have been she.

It was all too late though, for House, for Wilson, even for herself. House and Wilson were dead, forever lost to what may have been, forever lost to her.

Her tears fell freely now, obscuring her vision and making it impossible to read anything further in the short article. She put the paper down for the time being, her memories continuing to whirl about her like fallen leaves in a chill wind.

Although it was nearly a year ago, she remembered it as if it were yesterday. They had all gathered at the funeral parlor. House, the great instigator, the supreme catalyst had once more brought everyone together.

Even people who had long ago left House's sphere of influence; Allison Cameron had come and so had Stacey Warner, House's great love who he hadn't seen in years. Everyone who had ever loved him was there. They were all trying to understand and at the same time support each other with the heavy burden of grief brought on by the unimaginable loss of one Gregory House.

Noticeably absent had been the woman to whom House had more recently given his heart. Lisa Cuddy it seemed did not have the courage or the graciousness to make an appearance at House's funeral.

Perhaps Cuddy would not let go of the past. But by refusing to attend his funeral she doomed only herself to never being rid of the lingering misgivings she continued to harbor, denying those resentments to be buried along with the man himself.

In the end however, Cuddy's singular absence did not matter. All of House's loved ones who had gathered there stood up one by one and shared their memories of him, commiserating together in a futile attempt to fill the gaping hole his death would forever leave upon their lives and hearts.

Finally, they all felt the impact that House had had upon their lives. He'd pushed, cajoled, frightened, threatened, inspired, broken all the rules and traversed the narrow border between sanity and insanity so many times that it seemed like he, House had never really been of this earth to begin with.

But after all was said and done, House had been a positive force for good in everyone's life. He'd touched so many people, healed so many lives, of his patients and even those around him. House had made them all, _ALL_, even the bitter and unforgiving Cuddy, better people for having known him, for having been a part of their lives.

And he had never known it, never realized how important he was to all of them.

Nor did he know how very much he was loved.

Her tears were flowing quite steadily now as she blew her nose again into the tissue. She turned her thoughts to Wilson remembering him as he rose to give the eulogy for his best friend.

Wilson began slowly, speaking in the abstract before his anger had gotten the better of him as it somehow always did when he'd been around House.

But Wilson's anger was misdirected. He wasn't really angry at House for being who he was as he began to explain. At that point, Wilson already knew he had the cancer that would one day claim his life. Wilson had been angry at his best friend for leaving him behind to die alone.

Which the newspaper's article explained he finally had.

It was over. All over.

She turned back to the article as her shock bled into an uneasy acceptance. She hastily dried her tears and continued to read:

"_Investigators discovered evidence that at least one other person inhabiting the cabin had cared for Dr. Wilson for the amount of time he resided there. While no one has come forward to claim responsibility, investigators emphasized that no evidence of foul play had been uncovered."_

She read and reread these sentences over and over, trying to make her brain grasp the irrational. She just couldn't make any sense of it. Who else did Wilson know? Did he pick up a woman in his travels? That didn't seem possible. After all, how many relative strangers would take up with a sick man and agree to care for him as he slowly wasted away?

The only person who would have done that, held Wilson's head as he vomited, held his hand as he died . . . the only person who would have been there for Wilson, who deeply loved him enough to keep him from dying alone was the same person who had made a similar promise to her, the one who was willing to stay with her, care for her and end her suffering when the time finally came.

But that was impossible.

House was dead.

All thoughts of House flew from her mind as she heard a knock on the door. She wasn't thinking clearly, had not slept well the night before and still had not had her first cup of coffee. And the announcement of Wilson's death along with the remembrance of how House had also been so suddenly stolen away from her made her reckless.

Because Dr. Remy Hadley didn't even pause to look through the peephole before she forcibly flung open the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

He hesitated.

For what reason, he did not know. It had been, after all, several weeks since he learned that she'd moved back to Princeton. And some days since he'd straddled the bike and ridden cross-country to get to where he stood right now.

He'd gone through a lot to be here, standing in the hallway just outside her door, much more than simply the hundreds of miles of mind-numbing highway alone would suggest.

But now he was in the home stretch of his journey, a journey that had started long before Wilson's illness and inevitable death, perhaps even long before the infarction that had robbed him of nearly everything, his strength, his vibrancy and in the end, even his hope.

The ache which lingered within him was much more than simply the effects of asphalt vibration. He was exhausted, so infinitely tired in his brain, his body, his very soul.

It seemed to Gregory House that it was sometimes too arduous, that the business of going on when other, more vital, more _worthy_ people had not was too great a burden.

Amber, Kutner and finally, Wilson; night after night their faces appeared startlingly clear behind his closed eyelids, their voices calling after him when sleep should have beckoned instead.

It was a hurt greater than any he had ever known, an impossible weight he shouldered with every breath, with every limping step he took. For no amount of drugs or meaningless distractions could rid himself of his guilt. The guilt of outliving those he loved most.

Nor could anything stop the thoughts racing through his brain.

There was for House no end to the sorrow that must be endured day in, day out. His misery, an unremitting reminder that it was he who wanted to die, who perhaps more than anyone else _deserved_ to die.

And yet he endured while these others, these people he loved, yes _loved_, had all gone on before him, too young and far too soon, fading faster than shadows in the darkness.

House wanted to end his suffering. But then there were times he found a reason to go on.

Right now, that reason, the only one available to him from the arsenal of his battered psyche, waited on the other side of the door where he now found himself.

Yet there he stood, frozen in place, the knuckles of his right hand gripping his cane turning white as another wave of intense pain undulated through his ragged thigh muscle.

What had compelled him to come here? Had it been the promise he'd made to her? That had most assuredly been part of his motives for coming all this way.

But it was not the whole story.

House remembered that moment, nearly three years ago, as if it were only yesterday.

She had not wrested the promise from him. Neither had he made it under any other kind of duress. House had vowed to stay with her during her final days and end, when and if necessary, her suffering simply because he had found in her an ally, a safe haven with whom he could share his true feelings. And she had responded in kind.

It was a pact between them, one made when they had both been at the lowest points in their lives, when they had separately felt overwhelmed by their anguish and grief. For that short time together they had found, quite surprisingly, understanding and solace in each other, the person in whom they had least expected to find such comfort, all the while eschewing the pity that was so repulsive to them both.

And House would not have traded that feeling, however brief, for anything.

That ephemeral period had formed a strong bond between them which was then reinforced by his fateful promise. House considered the oath he'd given her a sacred trust between the two of them. A trust borne from their deep, heartfelt connection, it was true.

But just as true, just as real, House had made that promise because he sincerely loved her.

House shook his head. How had he missed it? How had he not even considered it before?

Yes, she was attractive, beautiful really. Intelligent, funny, a brilliant medical mind. But then he had been her boss, her mentor, her friend. And the age difference was a huge stumbling block, although probably not as great as the other barriers that rose up between them.

Yet it had slowly dawned on him how much he cared for her. And in his long talks with Wilson, near the end, Wilson spoke to his friend, encouraging House to go and find her, talk to her, and if it was at all possible, to make his peace with her.

And now House knew why.

Wasn't that just like Wilson? Laying on his deathbed and making preparations for someone else to fill his shoes as friend, confidant and caretaker to his mercurial best friend.

Damn him. Damn him all to hell.

House abruptly turned away from the door, the hot blood rising to his cheeks, the tears rising to his eyes.

Wilson had known. In the end, he knew House well enough to anticipate his next move and try and thwart it.

And wasn't that just like the sorry son-of-a-bitch? Laying there dying and setting up someone else to be chief House wrangler.

If Wilson was so smart then he should have known that House, once he discovered Wilson's plan, was having none of it.

House began limping back down the hall, the tears now blinding his sight. He stopped to pass his hand across his eyes and the rest of his face. He stood there for awhile, collecting himself and reining in the turmoil of his emotions.

He turned back.

Limping toward her door once again, House came to the realization that he had nowhere else to go just as the bitter truth loomed even larger. For now that Wilson was dead House had no one else in all the world.

He was utterly, completely and totally alone.

His mother had never needed him. His arrival in her life had merely complicated her own and only served to tie her to a man whom she may have called husband but was certainly not her first choice for that designation. As she undoubtedly knew that Greg had not been fathered by her husband, John House, her resentment toward her only child increased, despite all her best efforts to keep it hidden from him.

Blythe House had just never counted on her son being as sensitive, as positively brilliant as he was from the very start. She never knew that Greg had long ago discerned the reasons behind his ill fit in the House household. And of course she had always avoided confrontation of any kind, preferring to ignore those things she found distasteful like the malevolent causes for her son's excess of bruises, broken bones and various other injuries.

She and John had been the start of Greg House's chronicle of being betrayed by those whom he loved the most. The others had simply gone on to continue in that vein in House's life: Stacey, Cuddy, even his best friend Wilson, had all conspired with others to betray, cripple and in the end, break his heart.

This, more than anything else, served to twist and cripple House, made him cynical, untrusting, hopeless and alone. Yet House could never find it in his heart to blame his mother or anyone else for that matter for the day-to-day misery within which he found himself existing.

For in his heart of hearts, House felt that he must deserve his own wretched state.

But once he found himself in that pit of darkness and despair, House knew he could not, would never stand idly by and watch another fall into the same abyss. If it was at all within his power to do so, he would avert such a tragedy happening to anyone else.

Like Thirteen.

House sighed heavily as he remembered the ease with which the young doctor had at first, been so willing to throw her life away. Just as he had tried to do so many, many times.

Thirteen had needed a champion. House mused cynically that all she got instead was himself.

It was then that House put into action an elaborate plan. He purposely waylaid her suicidal tendencies, methodically engaged her mind, made her want to live again, be committed and dynamic again. House made Thirteen want her life, however short, to have meaning.

It had not occurred to him until that very moment that perhaps it had been his love for Thirteen that had called him back to Princeton. Love was such a foreign concept to him that it had not crossed his mind.

After Wilson's death, once the opportunity presented itself, House set off for her new place even though he himself could not comprehend the rationale for this course of action. But for some unforeseen reason he felt an overriding need to go there, to see her. Felt it with a knowing that reached into the very marrow of his bones.

So he'd climbed aboard his motorcycle and ridden both day and night, only stopping to refuel either his body (rarely) or his bike. What certainty of purpose had gripped him he couldn't quite say but after so much time, more than two years actually, he finally stood on her doorstep.

And then he had hesitated.

What on earth for? Hadn't he already answered some shadowy, nameless call to see her, talk to her, tell her . . . God. He wasn't sure what he was going to tell her.

All he knew was that she, more than anyone else in his life had understood him, had glimpsed occasionally into his heart, maybe even his very soul.

And because of that, and because of the promise he'd made to her, he knew he owed her . . . something.

An explanation? Perhaps.

An apology? Much more likely.

He just didn't know.

He stared at the numbers on the unfamiliar door, rubbed his aching thigh and knocked. Once.

He half hoped she wouldn't be in. Or at least that she wouldn't hear.

The muffled sounds of footsteps and the metallic clicking of locks sliding open made both of those remote possibilities fly from his thoughts as the door was thrown wide.

She stood before him, looking sleep deprived and a bit teary but as lovely as ever. Her long dark hair framed her pale but exquisite face with its high forehead, prominent cheekbones, slender, refined nose and full lips that were parted slightly in surprise above her firm, square jaw.

And her eyes . . .

House watched as her perfectly arched eyebrows rose questioningly above what were easily the best feature on an overall striking canvas. Her slightly widely spaced, almond-shaped eyes glowed, even now through the last remnants of her tears, in the palest shade of turquoise blue.

He saw unadulterated shock, then recognition register on her features for only a moment . . .

Before she hauled off and slapped him right across the face. Hard.

The slap resounded in the empty hallway as House waited for his teeth to stop rattling in his head and his eyes to stop watering before he endeavored to think of what to do and say next.

He reached up to rub his burning cheek finally collecting his thoughts as he said, "I guess this means I can't come in." He paused and then finished, "I'll go."

House turned slowly to do just that, when he felt her small hands on him. But this time, she was turning him around, clutching smoothly against the stubble on his face, resolutely lowering his head. Before he could voice either his surprise or dissent, Thirteen pulled him forward and started kissing him forcefully on the mouth.

God! She tasted sweet.

The lingering flavors of mint from her toothpaste lurked behind the last remnants of what could only be a jelly donut. He closed his eyes and relaxed into the kiss as her tongue flicked back and forth across his lips, begging for entrance.

He let loose a low moan granting her the access she required. He felt her arms move to the nape of his neck, her hands playing with his hair while her small breasts pushed firmly into his chest. His own arms reached around her tiny waist and pressed her body even closer, eliciting an immediate response from his own at the sensation of feminine full body contact.

His tongue gently pushed into her mouth, deepening the kiss. His hips mimicked his tongue and he pressed into her, enough to make obvious his growing arousal. She moaned too.

Her kiss was as satisfying as a cool drink on a hot summer's day.

In that moment, House felt within himself the full weight of want and time. For it had been so long, so agonizingly long.

But this was not the reason he had come.

House moved his hands up from her waist to her shoulders and gently pushed her back, breaking the kiss. Thirteen stepped away from him, letting her hands slip from his shoulders where they came to rest against his chest.

Slowly, cautiously she opened her eyes almost as if she were afraid that when she did so, House would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Or maybe she was more afraid that he would still be there. That it was Gregory House she had just impulsively kissed and who continued to stand in her doorway, very much alive.

"Getting mixed signals here," House said at last breaking the silent spell they both seem to be under. He shook his head to clear his scattered thoughts. "Hate to quote 'The Clash' on you but should I stay or should I go?"

Remy quickly licked her lips and then answered hoarsely, "Yes, yes. By all means, come in."

So many questions raged within her that she was for a moment, struck totally dumb. In that case, Remy did the only thing she could think of, she stepped aside to let House limp past her through the doorway and into her apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

Oh God.

Why on earth did she kiss him?

There was no great mystery as to why she slapped him. That had simply been an instinctive reaction to opening her door and seeing the "late" Gregory House, all six feet two and a half inches of him in the hallway right outside her front door when he should have been six feet underground.

His impromptu appearance had made her feel as if she'd been ambushed. She was surprised. Shocked. And if she really wanted to be totally honest with herself not a little pissed off.

For nearly a year Remy and nearly everyone else who'd known House had been laboring under the misapprehension that he'd been killed in a horrific fire. They'd all attended his funeral, coming together, not to praise the man they'd known, but to bury him.

Yet as they searched their minds, and more importantly their hearts, praise him they did. They'd rejoiced in their varied associations with him, whether professional or personal, and so consoled one another before returning to their day-to-day lives, going on as if nothing earth shattering had happened.

But it had. News of House's death had been devastating to them all but perhaps to no one more so than Thirteen herself.

For Remy this tragic event had been so much more than the loss of a brilliant medical mind, more than her own personal loss of a boss, mentor and friend. It even went beyond the inevitable corollary that with House gone there would be no one there to comfort her during her final hours. When she finally succumbed to the disease that had already begun to stalk her, Remy would in all probability die alone and in pain.

No, all of these prospects were as smoke and ashes when compared to the vacuum that House's absence had created in her life.

House held an irreplaceable position as a catalyst and truth seeker, constantly pushing and prodding those around him to think more clearly, do better, _be_ better people. Combined with his unceasing energy in this regard, House had always been a veritable force of nature.

But without him nearby or at least a phone call away, Remy's world seemed just a bit smaller, more hollow and less bright.

Each day she felt the lack of him in so many respects. How she had taken so many things about him for granted now that she was denied forever from experiencing them again was a mystery to her. Seemingly simple things; the particular timbre of his voice, those looks and expressions unique unto himself, all took on a character and a life all their own.

How her greedy ears hungered to hear House's melodic baritone making his pinpoint observations and diagnoses ring out just once more. What wouldn't she give to see that signature look of wild, impish delight illuminating his features when he revealed the case-solving epiphany that would save yet another patient's life?

Dear God, she even missed the smell of him, that distinctly masculine scent that was only discernible within short range, when he stood so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, emitting as it did so a heady mixture of bourbon and aftershave, motorcycle exhaust and leather wafting finally an undertone of an indefinable something, a scent that was wholly his own.

Last but not least and more than anything else Remy missed his eyes. Her dreams had been haunted, particularly over the past year, by eyes of such a fantastic blue that shifted from the sky's color on a cloudless summer day to the deepest blue of a storm-tossed sea ruthlessly betraying their owner's varying moods. The times she'd woken in the night, sitting bolt upright in her bed and gasping for air just as the last remnants of that cobalt hue slipped from her memory were beyond her accounting.

Images of his eyes, his face, his hands, the way he moved, all the memories of her time spent with him began to scatter from her recollections like sand in a strong wind. As her memories faded, everything about him became less clear so that she began to think the whole thing, her work for him, their atypical friendship, the promise he'd made to her, had all been a dream. Yes, both a dream and a nightmare.

The nightmare had happened a year ago when all of that, all that ever was or would be House had been stolen away, vanished in the twinkling of an eye, consumed by the demons of his own past, his addictions, false hopes and flames.

How she had been able to go on living under the weight of her grief she hardly knew, her inner turmoil so often forcing her conflicting emotions to bubble to the surface. There had always been so much fear and pain associated in living with House. Yet neither did they relinquish their hold upon her as she labored to live without him.

But now, here in front of her, stood the man upon whom she harbored so many regrets, had pinned her last hopes, the man who had vowed to stay with her to the last just as he'd obviously done for his best friend.

Wilson.

And that was when all the anger she'd felt at House's subterfuge, at learning of the deception he'd achieved by faking his own death melted away from her heart and soul.

It had been, after all, entirely on Wilson's behalf that House had done what he'd done. After promising to do the same for her, a person she was sure for whom House barely felt any emotion, how could the ever loyal House show any less devotion to the man who was for him the closest thing to a brother?

As she wiped the last tears Wilson's obituary had triggered from her eyes, Remy saw for the first time how big a sacrifice House had made.

House, who hated change perhaps more than anything else, had completely rearranged himself and his life to perform this final, honor-bound duty. He had given up his apartment, his toys, his career, his puzzles, everything that had been familiar or had given him comfort in the past just so that he could take his friend away on an extended, testosterone-fueled, Kerouacian road trip.

During the entirety of the past year, how much had House gone through for Wilson? He traveled with him, occupying Wilson's mind with varied activities until his health became too fragile. And then finally, the two friends settled in Jackson Hole. Thirteen could well imagine House tenderly nursing the dying Wilson, never leaving his side, surely even holding his hand as Wilson breathed his last.

Remy fought back fresh tears as she comprehended the strength of House's affection, his friendship, his unflagging constancy to those select and lucky few whom he truly loved. And in the end, this was the man she recognized, the man she knew perhaps as no one else did.

The man she loved.

Remy had her answer.

She kissed House because she loved him. And maybe no one was more surprised at that discovery than Remy herself.

By kissing him barely a few minutes ago she had somehow made real her feelings for him, wordlessly conveying the secret she'd uncovered within her heart to him. And to herself.

After all these years, after all they'd been through together and separately, it was a revelation to her that she had somehow allowed herself to fall in love with House. He was difficult, moody, unpredictable and enigmatic.

Yet she questioned this supposition for only an instant before she felt the legitimacy of her feelings wrapping round her like a blanket. For when she'd opened her door to House, Remy had also opened her heart to him. To her it seemed like coming to the end of a long, dark tunnel and breathing the warm, floral-scented air on the other side.

She'd slapped him for all the worry and heartache she'd been forced to live with over the past year. Those emotions lasted only for an instant. All the rest of it passed through her like spirit, coming to her heart's true fruition in its purest form: in a perfect, deeply passionate kiss.

For a moment as she stepped back to allow House room to brush by her in the doorway, she closed her eyes and touched her fingers to her lips where his kiss still burned, igniting a fire deep within her breast and forking lightning within her very soul.

Who the hell knew House was such an extraordinary kisser? Thirteen recognized the inappropriateness of quizzing either Stacey or Cameron on the subject of House's kiss, particularly considering the venue, House's faux funeral, where she'd last came into contact with them. And of course Cuddy was entirely out of the question and the picture.

Or perhaps she should have guessed after all as House had never been someone to do anything by rote or half measures. During those few precious seconds when their lips met, Remy experienced the kind of face blushing, toe curling, hip thrusting, soul churning kiss that up until that point had existed only in storybooks.

Damn him for pushing her away. Thank God he had. Because after only moments of pressing her lips to his and tangling their tongues together, Remy was ready not just to invite House into her apartment but into her bed as well.

It was a good thing he couldn't read her thoughts. She was thankful for that smallest of consolations, grateful as he limped heavily past her that he had no idea of exactly how far in she had just been considering letting him come.

But of course he would come . . . into her apartment.

As he passed, Remy shook her head slightly, refocusing her mind as House had taught her so long ago when she came to work for him. She shunted aside for the moment all the thoughts and feelings rushing through her to closely observe House for the first time in over a year.

She was shocked and dismayed by what she saw.

After House limped inside, she walked round him so that she could close and lock the door giving her ample opportunity to finally get a really good look at him.

Through all the years she'd known him, House had always been on the lanky side, surprising really as the man tended to eat an awful lot of crap. But as she watched him move forward into her living room, she saw how terribly bone-thin he had become. His jeans were only prevented from falling to the floor by his belt which looked to have extra holes punched into it in order to fit snugly around House's disappearing waistline.

She thought back to only a few moments ago to their stolen kiss. Remy hadn't noticed at first because she had been so caught up in her own whirling emotions but now she realized that House's lips and face were much too warm and the possibility that he was running a low-grade fever was highly likely.

Moving round in front of him again, Remy's objective medical perception kicked into high gear as she saw additional evidence of his rapid and unhealthy weight loss. House's eyes, though still startling in their hue of purest cobalt, looked tired and seemed set further beneath his brow. His zygomatic bones, always amply visible, were more pronounced and stood out sharply against the pale skin and familiar three-day-old stubble. She moved her gaze to his upper torso where his formerly fitted t-shirt and motorcycle jacket appeared bulky and oversized, hanging loosely from his gaunt frame.

Remy continued scanning him, taking in the entirety of the picture of Greg House, thankfully still very much alive for the moment, standing before her in her living room.

Doctor Hadley once again took a backseat while Remy . . . _while Thirteen_ took a breath and held it. As she let it out she came to the startling conclusion that somehow even near emaciation looked good on him. Less flesh on his face highlighted his striking bone structure and magnificent eyes. Carrying less weight, his body too seemed taller and more wiry, the musculature of his arms appearing taught as it was further exposed beneath his skin.

Even with all of the recent changes, all of the scars that time and unimaginable suffering in body and spirit had wrought, and even though his pain and heartache was now so plainly evident, even with all of that, House was still . . . beautiful.

She stood there gazing at him before suddenly realizing that House was staring just as intently at her. His eyes gleamed like sapphires as he looked at her with open curiosity laced with more than a twinge of something else, something darker.

A sudden wave of guilt washed over her as Thirteen realized that she'd initially been so caught up in the rush of her own feelings and reactions that she had almost missed the signs. The look in his eyes, his stilted limp, the way he now stood before her were evidence to the fact that House was currently experiencing a great deal of pain.

Remy looked quickly away, at the floor, the kitchen, anywhere but into those tumultuous, meaningful and completely hypnotic eyes. She needed to gather her thoughts and her courage. She needed to find a way to help him, to make him stay at least as long as he could recover his health, his strength. Mostly she just needed time, the time to sort through her own feelings so that she could convince him to . . . she wasn't sure exactly.

But once more her faculties left her as House's voice rumbled through the emptiness of her room and heart.

"The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

Desperate to finish what he came here for, especially now that the escalating pain overwhelming his right leg would soon make it impossible to continue standing or indeed do anything other than writhe on the floor in agony, House followed Thirteen into her apartment. She stepped behind him to close and lock the door but then came round to face him again.

House immediately saw a change in her demeanor. She avoided his eyes, either out of embarrassment, or more likely he reasoned, her former anger was beginning to return.

But as he watched her movements closely, a third possibility occurred to him. Thirteen was hiding something or desperately trying to at any rate.

Exhausted, weak and sick as he was, House's keen observation skills had not yet forsaken him. He studied her closely, scrutinizing her every breath, every subtle movement on her part.

He saw it. It only took a fraction of a second. It was there as she carelessly brushed a strand of hair from her face. Thirteen's hand twitched so minutely that anyone else would have missed it; anyone else that is except Gregory House. He also knew that even if someone were to notice, they would most likely attribute her trembling hand to something as mundane as caffeine withdrawal.

But House knew better.

Thirteen's disease had already begun to hold sway over her body. The quiver in her hand and, as she walked in front of him, the lethargy in her right leg signaled the beginning of her inexorable breakdown.

He couldn't think of it, wouldn't allow himself to ponder the inevitable. Not now. Not so soon after Wilson . . .

House began to wonder whether the Huntington's had already begun to effect her emotions as well. It was evident that she'd been crying when he first arrived and Thirteen, much like himself, had never been one to openly show her emotions.

Maybe that was why she'd kissed him. She was becoming symptomatic, experiencing the nerve degeneration which undoubtedly jumbled both her actions and thoughts.

That explanation certainly made more sense than any other. Or anything House might hope for in the darkest recesses of his solitary heart.

For various reasons including Thirteen's growing embarrassment and his own confused feelings which were now being superseded by his damned right leg, House realized he needed to say what he had to and leave as soon as possible.

She'd been standing there quietly only a few feet away since he'd quoted Mark Twain. Thirteen's only visible responses to his entry into her home had been an increase in her breathing rate and crossing her arms over her small bosom.

House guessed her faster respiration was from both the kiss and a jangle of nervous tension intensifying in the room. He tried to ignore her reactions as well as his own and stepped forward, the determination to finish what he'd already started etched across his features.

But his fortitude was quickly replaced by agony as a searing jolt, like a bolt of white hot lightning, ripped into his thigh muscle and then tore through his entire body. House closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the room from spinning and to vainly keep what meager contents of his mostly empty stomach from being released onto Thirteen's carpet.

As he opened his eyes again, he saw her looking worriedly at him. Then she jammed her now fidgeting hands into the pockets of her sweat pants.

"You've lost weight," she blurted out, "A lot of weight."

House gulped a lungful of the room's cool air, thankful that his powers of deflection, much like his ubiquitous powers of observation, did not let him down.

"Didn't you know?" he said. "I decided to live the dream. I became a supermodel. But Tyra says I still need to learn to work the runway. Apparently my walk isn't fierce enough. I told her it's hard to be fierce with a cane and a limp."

An awkward silence descended upon them once more. House was finding it hard to stop thinking about their kiss. And how very much he wanted to kiss her again.

How warm and inviting her mouth was. And even though she had initiated the kiss, when he'd pressed into her, her body had yielded to his so easily. For that brief moment, he'd no longer felt tired or ill. He felt alive and more importantly, wanted. Needed.

His arms suddenly felt empty without her encompassed by them while his own body ached to be held by her again. It was as if she wielded a magic cure, a healing balm that could only be dispensed within the confines of her embrace, only shared within the secret places of her mind, body and heart.

Even now, with several feet separating them, he felt her body close and beckoning.

Thoughts like that would only foil his intention for a quick exit. Why on earth had he listened to Wilson? Why had he come here in the first place?

"Oh I'm sorry," House said. "You wanted to play state the obvious. My bad. It's my turn isn't it?"

"Would you like," Thirteen said, cutting across him, "to sit down? Can I get you a glass of water?" Her voice sounded husky and sensual, even to her own ears.

"That's funny. I show up at your new place like Lazarus rising from the dead and that's all you have to say to me? I've only been gone a year. I don't remember you being this much of an idiot."

Thirteen gritted her teeth and squared her jaw as she once more looked him right in the eye, "Fine. Have it your way House. What brings you here? What do you want?"

Just perceptibly, House nodded his approval before answering, "I kinda thought it was obvious. Faked my death and went missing for over a year as an elaborate ploy to get into your pants. After you slapped me upside my head of course."

The fact that House had returned to his old fall-back position of deflections and avoidance was not lost on Remy. Neither did she miss the sheen of sweat that had started on House's brow and upper lip.

"That's not funny," she returned.

"Oh no? I think it is."

Remy frowned. "You think it's funny that you convinced anybody who ever cared about you that you're dead? You think it's funny to put your friends, your own mother through all that, through a funeral, mourning you?"

It was House who looked away this time. "Collateral damage," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Couldn't be helped. And not everybody whoever cared about me thinks I'm dead. The only person _I know for sure_ who really cared about me IS dead. So . . ." His voice trailed off.

The elephant in the room had finally reared its head.

Remy's arms dropped to her sides. "I know House. And I'm sorry. There was an article in this morning's newspaper."

House looked up at her before tucking his chin and turning his eyes away once more. But before he did, she caught just the barest glimpse of despair and insurmountable, unbearable pain in his expression.

"Yeah, well, that's over," he said with a sigh. "Wilson proved them all liars and idiots in the end. Held on a lot longer than any of them thought. Those quack oncologists gave him five months and he lasted almost a whole year."

Remy nodded. "He held on for you. And because of the care you gave him."

"Don't do that," House said interrupting her. "Don't sympathize with me, feel sorry for me."

"House I'm not. I'm only talking about . . ."

"Things you have absolutely no knowledge of. You don't have any idea what I've been doing for the past year. You don't know that maybe I killed Wilson right away and hid the body in a freezer just so I could collect on his insurance policy."

"I know that Foreman said Wilson bought himself a motorcycle right before he disappeared a year ago. I know you two probably spent the better part of a year riding around and having a good time. And I know that they found Wilson's body in Jackson Hole. Beautiful spot if you're going to die."

House flinched.

"Sounds like you've already picked out your own death site," he said. "Which is why I'm here."

It was Thirteen who flinched this time. She was well familiar with House's brutal honesty. But not having experienced it for more than a year as well as having the subject matter of her own imminent death so carelessly bandied about, made his words feel like talons tearing at her heart.

"What did you come here for then?" She said between clenched teeth.

House wiped the sweat from his forehead and swayed a little where he stood. He was running out of time.

"I . . . had to see you."

"Why me?" Remy said more harshly than she had intended. Her patience had begun to wear thin. "Why not your mother? Or Stacey. Or any of the other people who showed up to grieve your untimely and totally contrived passing? Why not go see your wife?"

A slow, boiling rage began building in House's voice as he said, "My mother doesn't need me. She never did. Besides, she's got her new husband to keep her occupied. Stacey does too. And Domenica?" At her name, House's throat seemed to close. "She died in a car crash three months after Wilson and I left Princeton."

Remy took a step back. "Oh God House. I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't know. Why should you? Not like you kept tabs on my widow."

"But you did."

"Of course I did. I kept tabs on everyone whoever meant anything to me."

With these words, Thirteen felt for the first time the power and meaning of House standing before her in the living room of her new apartment.

"That's how you knew I came back to the States," she whispered. "How I'd moved here."

They stood silently looking at one another for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally, Remy spoke again. "So why _did_ you come here House? To see me?"

"I came to tell you that you were wrong. About me. And I had to let you know that . . . I – I can't keep my promise to you. I just can't. I won't go through that again. Not again. Understand?" House raised his voice but could not hide the shaking quality it had taken on. "No matter what I said before. No matter that you think I'd make that kind of promise to just anybody. That's where you were wrong. Anyway I guess you're gonna have to find yourself another patsy, someone else who cares enough to kill you."

Remy felt like she was suffocating. "Who _cares_ enough?" she said. "You came all this way to tell me you're gonna break your promise? Why? You could've just let me go on believing you were dead. Why show up and prove to me you're alive only to renege on your promise?"

The sweat was running down the side of his nose as House answered, "Cause I thought you of all people deserved the truth. You deserve to know that A: I'm not dead. Yet. And B: that I'm a weak, selfish bastard who won't sit and watch someone who means . . . I won't watch anybody else take forever to die again. Not again."

They both stood quietly regarding each other, both stunned to the core at his confession.

House attributed his slip to his lack of sleep and the excruciating pain he was now experiencing. And perhaps just a little to the kiss Thirteen had planted on him which still burned his lips and whispered to his long slumbering heart.

"You're obviously not a weak and selfish bastard if you were able to see it through to the end with Wilson," she said calmly.

"Yeah, whatever. Maybe not a few weeks ago but now I am. It's like I always said, 'people change.' I've changed and turned into a selfish bastard. So I'm breaking my promise to you. You'll just have to get your girlfriend or one of your other lesbian conquests to hold your hand while you lay dying and then kill you when the pain gets so bad you can't take it anymore. Okay? Are we done here?"

Remy opened her mouth to respond but before she could, House had turned on his heel and took two faltering steps toward the door. Just as he reached the edge of the couch, his right leg buckled underneath him and he fell forward, crashing senseless to the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**5. **

There was something terrifyingly beautiful in the way House's body took forever to fall.

Like a Roman candle waxing in its brilliance before bending earthward and in its death throes slowly fading from the night sky, Remy witnessed House's long, lean form straighten and rise up, momentarily hanging suspended in the air until finally and with an agonized groan he arced back, crumpling face down to the floor.

Both the violence and deafening thud with which he connected to the hardwood shook her from her temporary reverie. She forced her heretofore frozen limbs into action, leaping over the ottoman in her haste to kneel by House's prone form mere seconds after he'd hit the ground.

"House?" she called without even the faintest hope of receiving an answer.

She bent down next to him laying her cheek against the cool floor in order to see his face. The angle at which he was positioned however made it impossible for her to properly examine him. But even the way he was currently situated, Thirteen could discern that House's eyes remained resolutely closed, the skin on his face and hands appeared to be pale and damp. More ominously, he still had made no attempts to rouse himself or otherwise show signs that he had either heard her or had begun to regain consciousness.

Summoning the medical professional within her to action, she moved herself closer, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his ribcage. From this posture she leaned into him, using the entirety of her body weight to gently roll House over onto his back.

Although he had so obviously lost weight, he was still considerably larger than she so that the force and momentum of his rotation obligated her to roll over with him. When they had ceased their collective movement, Remy found herself lying on top of him, her legs straddling his lean hips.

She blushed furiously while also feeling a pang of guilt at her fleeting gratitude that he had not yet woken up. Once again, she induced her mind to compartmentalize his close proximity, the heat from his body and her own heart's quickened pace as she assessed the current situation at the same time as she quickly raised herself up and off of him.

Hushed and anxious, Remy took hold of the small metal tag of House's leather motorcycle jacket and yanked it down toward his beltline. The zipper opened with a harsh, ratcheting sound, revealing his thinly t-shirted torso all the way from his Adam's apple to his navel.

Wanting to remove even this feeble impediment to her endeavors, she lifted the light cotton material, folding the shirt up toward his collarbone, fully exposing his chest and stomach. She was unable to prevent a horrified gasp escape her lips as she saw for the first time how emaciated House had become. His ribs stuck out on either side of his chest and the bones of his clavicle seemed barely blanketed by his pale skin.

Shunting these other thoughts regarding House's general health aside, Remy returned to the matter at hand. She leaned low over him again, pressing her right ear against his broad but sunken chest, holding her breath as she strained to listen for signs of life.

Though faint and slightly thready, the comforting drumbeat of House's heart sent a thrill of relief through her.

This respite was short-lived however. As the seconds ticked by and she continued to press her ear against him, her apprehensions grew for she could not detect any discernible breath sounds.

Remy raised her face away from him. "House? House?" she called, her second entreaty sounding louder and more shrill in the subsequent, maddening silence.

The seconds seemed like hours as so many emotions jockeyed for position within her, fear and anger, love and hate, comfort and isolation, assuredness and confusion. Yet overall her training as a doctor somehow took precedence and kept her from buckling under the feelings of overwhelming panic. Remy clung to her medical persona, gratefully acknowledging it by allowing its objectivity to quiet every other thought, every other emotion she felt for and about House. As soon as all of that other noise was diminished, her next move revealed itself with startling clarity.

There was no doubt that House's life now hung in the balance. By some cruel trick of fate, her reluctant savior's life had been placed into her hands at this point in time to save.

Remy did the only thing she possibly could do.

Locking her embarrassment behind a door in her mind, she purposefully straddled House's hips a second time. She leaned down again, even further than before so that his face was only inches from her own. Taking one hand and placing it behind his neck, she tilted his head back while placing the fingers of her other hand on either side of his lips. She pressed her fingers inward and down, opening his mouth as wide as it would go and peered inside, satisfying herself that there was no obstruction to his airway.

Remy knew what she needed to do next but something deep inside her made her hesitate. But it was only for a millisecond. Then she shook her head, dissipating any further thoughts of delaying the inevitable. She inhaled as large an intake of breath as her lungs could possibly afford and inclined her head forward, pressing her lips against his as firmly as she could, creating an airtight seal.

Though her grounds for joining their lips at this juncture was for a wholly different reason, Remy realized that she did not feel all that different from when she'd previously kissed House, the kiss that he on his part had so eagerly returned just a short while before. She still felt herself trembling inside, still felt the warmth and softness of his lips juxtaposed against the roughness of his unshaven face and the apprehension she felt regarding the outcome of her actions this time around.

As she exhaled, she closed her eyes, breathing life into House - just as he had most assuredly breathed life into her when he'd returned her kiss in the open doorway to her apartment.

She breathed out until her chest burned, emptying her lungs completely. Then like a swimmer breaking the surface of the water, Thirteen released his mouth and tilted her head back, grabbing another lungful of air. Down she went again, forcing air, pushing life into him, willing him with all her might to breathe, to live.

This time Remy did not have the luxury of disconnect or objectivity, of merely being a doctor and performing artificial respiration on a nameless patient. As she breathed into House and leaned back a third time, she felt her lips burn while hot tears of fear and frustration stung her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

"Dammit House. Not now. Not this way. Live. LIVE!" Thirteen hardly knew if she were only thinking these things or saying them out loud in between her desperate gasps for air.

She was no longer counting her exhalations as she filled House's lungs over and over. It didn't matter. She knew that whatever happened she wouldn't, no couldn't, stop - not until House awoke or both she and House had stopped breathing forever.

Once more her body slid across him, dutifully engaged in nothing else but struggling against her own fears and possibly House himself in her solitary battle to save his life. This last time however, as she pressed her lips against his, her ears met with the most wondrous sound imaginable.

House moaned.

The sound was low yet powerful, filling not just her ears but her entire body with its vibration. It heralded the expansion and contraction of his lungs. She heard the whoosh of breath as House breathed through his nose and her heart welled up, as did her tears, with the reverberation of his second moan as she slowly opened her eyes.

At the same time, House's closed eyelids fluttered open. The look of surprise that was there at first suddenly shifted to something softer and denser. For in her excitement and relief at House's revived breathing, Remy had not yet moved back and away from him. Her lips were still tightly pressed against his.

She saw him close his eyes again at the same time she felt him shift slightly beneath her. And then his hand was gripping the back of her head, locking them together as he greedily plunged his tongue into her mouth.

It was Thirteen this time who couldn't have breathed, even if she'd wanted to. She was suddenly consumed with her need for the kiss, his kiss. Her hands went to his face as her tongue danced with his. And now when she heard and felt him moan, she knew it was not just with life, but with passion.

She allowed herself to become lost with him, in him, his physicality and masculinity, in the dichotomy of strength and softness existing in his kiss. Oh God, his masterful kiss. She felt his other hand move to her face, his long fingers gently brushing the hair behind her ear before returning to stroke her cheek.

Remy shivered. There was nothing in her entire being that wanted anything more than to stay with him this way, never moving, forever lying together until their bodies became as completely merged as their mouths and hearts were in this moment.

She sighed and House answered her with a sigh of his own.

But no amount of moans or sighs could possibly change their existing circumstances. House needed further medical attention. He was still only a hairbreadth's away from death, his own destruction and possibly the annihilation of anyone else within a 10 mile radius.

Suddenly and without warning she pushed herself off him so forcefully that her rear end slammed against the front of her couch. She curled her legs beneath her, scooting further onto the area rug in order to place the ottoman between herself and House.

"Okay, so you're alive," she gasped.

"So far," House said. He spoke quietly and both his tone and his features remained unreadable.

"Your heart was beating but you'd stopped breathing," Remy said by means of an explanation.

"Had I? Well I guess I should be thanking you then? If not for saving my miserable life then for at least using a more preferable technique than Foreman did last time I stopped breathing. I gotta say I like your method better than purple nurples."

House closed his eyes again missing as he did so, the color that rose to Remy's cheeks.

At first glance, she thought he might have closed his eyes in an attempt to shut out both her and any uncharacteristic feelings of embarrassment he had about the kiss. All her excuses and hastily contrived explanations died in her throat however as she saw an unmistakable wince of pain cross his features immediately followed by a small grunt.

"How's the pain?"

"I don't know. How are you?"

Remy sighed impatiently. "Just answer the damn question."

House opened his eyes again and glared at her. "Well I don't know. You have to be a bit more specific since I have so many to choose from. _Which_ pain are you talking about?"

The simple honesty of House's answer made Thirteen recoup some of her patience. "The one that made you pass out," she said softly. "My guess is it's your leg."

"I did NOT pass out. I lost consciousness when I tripped over your stupid carpet and had the wind knocked out of me. I should sue."

"I'd like to see you try. Dead men tell no tales OR testify in court. They don't need money either."

"This one does."

"Yeah whatever," she said as she ran trembling fingers through her long, dark hair. House blinked, trying not to think how soft her hair felt touching his face as she leaned over him only a few moments before, how soft and pleasant ALL of her felt.

"I SAW what happened," she continued. "You were unconscious BEFORE you hit the floor. So did you pass out because . . ."

"For the last time, I did NOT pass out," House said raising his voice slightly.

"Suit yourself He-Man. But stop deflecting. How bad's the damn leg?"

House sighed. Unable to escape her direct question he asked, "Scale of one to ten?"

Thirteen nodded.

"I'd say it's way past z."

"Wait here," she said as she climbed unsteadily to her feet.

"Where the hell else am I gonna go?" House said once again closing his eyes to her and the scattered thoughts whirling about in his own mind.


End file.
